


Orange Haze

by orphan_account



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Homophobic Language, M/M, not sure about tagging this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-02
Updated: 2014-11-02
Packaged: 2018-02-23 15:15:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2552240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's relationships with Stuart and Brian were always complicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Orange Haze

White hot heat had prickled at John's skin when Stuart strolled in with Astrid under his arm. It had been days and somehow the reaction always remained the same. Intense and rotten. His eyes automatically narrowed on Stuart's disheveled hair and slightly flushed cheeks. The bassist looked smug as hell and John hated him. He made a point of it by shoving past Stuart with a pathetic grumble. 

"You're too tiny for 'er," John chuckled humourlessly, "She'll snap you in two if yer not careful." 

Stuart half smiled and pressed a gentle kiss on Astrid's temple. 

It might sound a little queer, but he did think to himself that he wish he could be that close to Stuart. They were close, the closest he had ever been with another human being. And he could tell Stuart anything and everything. He could wrap an arm around Stu's small and boney shoulders and pull him close and laugh about something ridiculous. He could kick at a brick wall and scream about something that drove him mad in front of him. But somehow John still felt like there was a line he couldn't cross. Like when they slept in the same bed some nights, and if Stuart rolled over and was arm-to-arm with John, it just felt like orange haze. Warmth. 

Stuart's pale and freckled face seemed to glow since he met Astrid. Mostly because he was getting hot showers at her mother's place, but there was something else. Something John had never given Stu and that made his blood boil in an immensely sinful way. 

 

So of course, he simmered away during their spot during the early hours of the morning. He could have coped, he could have gone on without another word about it. But Stuart insisted on singing 'Love Me Tender', staring right at Astrid. He sung with such extraordinary sincerity and love. Swaying slightly and gripping the microphone in his fist, forgetting he was supposed to be playing his bass. 

After the gig was over, they all piled off the stage and headed off to the bar. Paul gripped his sleeve and huffed, 

"His playing was sloppy tonight, when he _was_ playing, that is."

Paul had had it in for Stu since the beginning. Lately he had seemed to hate him more than usual. John gulped down a beer that had been left unattended on the bench and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. 

"I'll sort 'im out," he promised, straightening out his leather jacket. 

 

John's definition of 'sorting someone out' was, of course, never a good thing. He gripped Stuart's arm and twisted him around. He held onto John's wrist, trying to wriggle free. 

_Orange haze._

"We're cuttin' out your 'Ode to Astrid' bit," he growled lowly. 

"Why?" Stuart pushed at John's chest and propelled himself backwards. 

"You know why, it's fucking disgraceful," John spat. Stuart crinkled his nose and balled up his fists. 

"Fuck you, John," he pointed accusingly at him, "Fuck you for being Paul's little messenger."

"No, I mean it. It's comin' from me," John chewed down on his lip, focusing on Stuart's pale eyes, washed over in passion and something else. 

"I don't bloody care," Stuart decided and waved John off, "I never cared." 

"Where the fuck are ye going? Running to Astrid for a shag and a proper bed?" John laughed, and began gulping down another drink. 

"Don't ye dare speak about 'er like that," Stuart spun around and yelled, "Say what ye want about me size, me bass playing, me singing, but don't ye dare say a thing about Astrid! She's too good and pure for the likes of you, Lennon!"

 _Burning red_. He could feel it swarm around and inside of him. 

Standing there, boiling over, he let his glass slip out of his grip and onto the floor. He stamped over the broken glass, hearing it crunch under his boot somehow over the noise of the small crowd cheering at the girl on stage. 

He stormed out of the pub like he had some sort of purpose. _Burning red_. 

Stuart was weaving through a small group of people. Astrid could snap him in two, he was so tiny. Fragile and gentle. Soft. 

 

John clawed at Stuart's back, gripping the material of his shirt and pulled him backwards. 

"John! Fu-" Stuart struggled, kicking his legs and trying to set his arms free. 

John pushed him into an alleyway, letting him fall in a heap on the ground. Stuart scrambled to his feet and charged at John, who simply wrapped his arms around him and pushed him into the wall and held him there. Panting into Stuart's collarbones. Stuart was practically dry heaving. 

"John, please. Please let me go," Stuart whined. His hands on both of John's shoulders, hips pressed into each other. Chest to chest. 

He pulled back his head and looked at Stu, his quiff fallen in front of his eyes. Slowly and gently, he pushed his hair back with one trembling hand. 

John was somehow settled. That's what Stu did to him. He settled him down. 

 _Orange haze_. 

He pressed his mouth against Stuart's, and felt his whole face go numb. His whole figure melted further into Stuart's. John pulled away almost as quickly as he had gone in, lips tingling and stars swimming around the both of them.

"John," Stuart huffed out, warm breath against John's mouth. 

And suddenly, the glass started to crack. He pushed himself off of Stu, and tried to steady himself. 

"John, what did-" Stuart wiped his mouth with his hand and John shattered. Freezing cold regret and hatred crept up the gripped him tightly. 

"Shit, don't...I didn't..." John choked out, "Fuck...fuck! Fuck!!! Fucking-" 

"You're drunk, mate, John please," Stuart reached out and placed a hand on John's back. Despite everything, he leaned into the touch. He was a fucking monster. 

"It was a fucking joke, oh fucking God, you...Jesus Christ, you really believed-" John began laughing, he doubled over, holding his stomach. He strained to keep the laughter pouring out. His forced it out. It almost felt like hammering your hands on purpose, or stepping on broken glass without a boot. 

He kept it up until he threw up over his own feet. Scorching tears streaming down his face, his throat suddenly very sore. 

 

They never talked about that incident. John wouldn't allow it. He was completely relieved when Stuart decided he was going to stay with Astrid and paint. But it lingered between them. It was bright blue and painfully obvious. And when Stuart hugged him goodbye, John wept into his shoulder. Grateful and relieved Stuart didn't find him disgusting.

 

* * *

 

Somewhere in between visiting a gay bar in Spain with Brian and being able to hear him and a boy he picked up through the paper thin walls, he had felt that same white hot prickling heat in his skin. But he knew where that would lead him, so he pushed it out of his head. He tried writing a letter to Julian, but tore it into pieces and threw them out of the window and into the little street below.

Somewhere in between seeing Brian wrapped up in nothing but a towel as he left the bathroom and John pouncing on him and kissing his neck, he felt that bright energy that Brian gave him when he looked at him. His glittery green eyes, always full of some sort of admiration that John didn't deserve. John could see the water droplets trickling down Brian's chest from where he was perched at the end of the sofa. 

Somewhere in between Brian pushing him off of him with a yell and John collapsing onto the floor to his knees, he felt the ice-cold burn that he remembered feeling in Hamburg. He had thought that this what queers do. They find each other in a sea of people who didn't understand and come together. But somehow, he was still being rejected. Like Brian had set in the knife himself and let John twist it himself.

And yet, unlike Stu, Brian took pity on him. They were kindred spirits of a sort, after all. And so he pulled John up and kissed him in a rush of adrenaline and confusion. They both were going fast on purpose, not wanting common sense to catch up with them. 

 

They ended up staying in that day. 

John swam in an ocean of orange haze. Brian was warm and beautiful. He spoke softly and kindly. 

The two of them, naked and glistening with sweat lying on the carpet floor. John wished he could somehow keep this feeling, this afterglow, in a jar. He wished that Cynthia didn't have him nailed down. He wished he could have started this all over, just to find Brian and stay like this. 

The sun had dipped down low enough to allow a beautiful orange glow spill through the open windows of their hotel room. Brian sat up and pulled a cigarette from nowhere and lit it. 

"Get me one," John let his hand rest on Brian's thigh. 

"Find one yourself," Brian laughed, a cloud of smoke escaping his lips. His lips. They had trailed patterns on John's back and neck. He kissed him the way John needed to be kissed. 

"You won't tell anyone, yeah?" John rolled over onto his side and pulled himself closer to Brian. 

"I never tell anyone about any of your other affairs," Brian took another puff, "I won't utter a word, John."

"It was for you, ye know. I just wanted you to get the fuck over it. Ye can't manage the band like that," John explained. 

"I understand," Brian tilted his head back. 

"You don't believe me," John accused weakly. 

"I love you, John. But I realize now that it's completely platonic kind of love. I admire you, I like you, I wish to keep our friendship for as long as you want me around. But this won't happen again. I can introduce you to places where you might-"

"No," John interjected hastily, "I'm not that kind of fag. I don't need..." he trailed off. He knew Brian saw right through him. 

"I was _about_ to say I can introduce you to places where you can find your....release. But those places are typically very dangerous, well, at least, dangerous characters tend to frequent there. I want you to be happy, John. But even more so, I also want my Godson to be happy and looked after. He's your child and he is the priority. It's terribly important you keep him safe," Brian spoke like the sea, in waves of intensity. 

"I know, I fucking know all of that shite. Don't you think that I think about that all the goddamn time?" John propped himself up on the couch. 

"No need to be aggressive," Brian turned to John. 

"You taste like the wine you gave Cyn and I for Christmas," John sighed after a while and let his head sink down to rest on Brian's steady shoulder. 

"You taste like alcohol," Brian chuckled. 

"I tried to kiss Stuart once," John admitted, "He pushed me away. But I still love him. I love him like I love you."

Brian didn't speak for the rest of the evening, because words weren't needed. They took a bath together and slept in the same bed, but that was it. It ended. Like a dream, it snapped shut and John tried desperately to hang on to the remaining memories of Brian's touch and taste. 

 

* * *

 

They never talked about it, but not long after Stuart died, John exploded and Brian was the victim. 

When he saw Stuart's painting hanging in Brian's home, he reacted in the sort of explosive manner that always propelled him into a stupidly uncomfortable situation. He burst open and screamed at Brian. Words poured out of his mouth and that familiar red hot haze filled his eyes and mind. 

"YOU FUCKED HIM. YOU FUCKED STUART YOU FUCKING PIECE OF SHITE, YOU DON'T GO ANYWHERE NEAR HIM. HE'S WITH ASTRID YOU STUPID FUCKING QUEER. WHY CAN'T YOU JUST LEAVE US ALONE?!" 

Somehow, Brian forgave him. He let him sleep in the spare bedroom to cool down. He explained to John that he simply bought a painting off of Stuart, and there was no affair. Stuart was engaged to Astrid. Brian wasn't interested in Stuart. 

He rubbed John's back affectionately. 

 _Orange haze_.

* * *

Brian died in 1967.

Grey. 

Buzzing grey numbness hung over his head. 

He never managed to feel that same orange haze again. Not with Cyn, not with Yoko. 

He simply just felt grey. 

 

 


End file.
